Coda
by thatswhyyyoudont
Summary: Slash. What could have happened after Coda, after Derek was tortured. "If Derek didn't answer a second time, Stiles would chicken out and bolt, he knew he would. He would reason with himself that there was no need to have come and scuttle home safely."


His jaws and hands were aching. Stiles realised he was gripping the steering wheel unnaturally hard and steeling his jaw, and forced himself to relax. This was _fine_, it would be fine. And whatever happened, he'd be home within the hour in his warm bed with pop-tarts and Buffy reruns.

He swallowed. The more nervous and serious he got, the more inappropriate his jokes were. He hoped they would stay in his head were they belonged just this once.

Derek must have been able to smell and hear him at this point, but when Stiles pulled up in front of the old house, there was no sign of him. Stiles sighed, and turned off the engine. He sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on the wheel, before forcing himself up and out. Eying the door with distaste, he gave a cursory knock; it was so old, it had given up on even closing properly. He pushed it open a joint and leaned in.

"Derek?"

His voice echoed in the hallway. And that wasn't creepy at all. He swallowed again. If Derek didn't answer a second time, he would chicken out and bolt, he knew he would. He would reason with himself that there was no need to have come and scuttle home safely, relieved. But then he heard rapidly approaching footsteps, and the door was pulled open wide. Derek was shirtless and tired-looking, neither of which helped things.

"Uh," Stiles began, when Derek just looked at him. "Hey. Can I come in?"

Derek looked annoyed, but Stiles wasn't met with the resistance he'd been expecting. He just backed off and let Stiles follow him into the house. Derek picked up a shirt discarded on the back of the sofa and pulled it on, and despite the - the _ inappropriateness_ of it, Stiles couldn't help lick his lips a little at the sight of the muscles pulling taut in Derek's back. Derek sat in the armchair and Stiles sat opposite on a sofa that had seen better days, avoiding the man's eyes. He wondered how to begin. His throat had become very dry all of a sudden.

"Uh," he said again. "I just wanted to say I'm...sorry. For not coming. For what happened. If I can do anything..." He was ballsing it up. He sounded like he didn't care.

Derek narrowed his eyes, uncaring. "Doesn't matter. Things have worked out."

Stiles half-expected him to flash his eyes red to make his point. He went on.

"Yeah, but...it still matters, man. It was a shitty thing to do. We should have come. Whatever you think, I think it was a shitty thing to do and I'm not like that. I wish I'd come. And I'm sorry that I didn't."

Derek's eyes were a little wide now. "OK," he said, his tone unreadable.

Stiles ran a hand over his hair, sort of relieved. It didn't make it right, but there was nothing more he could do. "So, are you?" he said, after a moment. "OK, I mean. Did I ask that already? I know it's probably a stupid question, but- "

"Yeah." Derek cut him off. He avoided Stiles' eyes, looking vaguely annoyed at the query. He rubbed at his forehead and slouched in his seat, dropping the tough guy act for once, and the motion made him look oddly worn out. It made Stiles feel awful all over again.

"Derek?" he said hoarsely.

He wasn't crying, far from it, he just looked like he had a pain. Stiles watched him, alert and helpless and sorry. His adrenalin was mounting, and it kept him from thinking as clearly. He stood up woodenly and made his way over to Derek, sitting on the floor in front of him. He pulled the hand away from his face gently and held it. In his clumsy head, he had meant it to just be nice, comforting, and once he realised how it must have looked, it was too late to take it back. Though maybe, deep down, he knew how it looked.

"Stiles." His voice was still expressionless.

"Sorry. I just - if you want - if maybe it'll make you feel better - "

He was killing himself. Who needed Scott when he had his dumbass mouth?

"_Stiles._"

He quaked, dropping the hand like it was red hot. He got to his feet clumsily. "I'll- " He was cut off as Derek grabbed hold of his wrist and hauled him down. Stiles caught himself on the back of the chair just in time before he landed in Derek's lap, bracing himself over him. Without warning, Derek nuzzled his throat, and let out a sigh that went through Stiles. Then he moved his hands to Stiles' shoulders, as if to push him back, and murmured "You're 17."

"Doesn't matter," he choked out, mimicking Derek's words from moments ago. He stayed where he was awkwardly, unsure what to do with himself. Derek seemed torn between pulling him down and shoving him off. He could feel the very strength of him in those arms. He reached a hand out experimentally to press against Derek's abdomen, feeling the solid muscles and heat there. He ran it up his chest.

"S'not right," Derek said distinctly, running his hands up Stiles' back. "Just because you're sorry."

Stiles was surprised into letting out a laugh. The idea of him doing this out of pity, of him doing Derek a favour like this, was ridiculous. "I'm not just sorry, dude." His occupied arm was beginning to give, and it was bringing him closer and closer to Derek.

Hands ran over his arms. "Sure?"

He nodded, sinking all the way down, and in one fluid motion Derek pulled him in for a kiss. He was a little cautious at first, the way Stiles imagined he'd kiss a girl on a first date, but then Derek's arms tightened and he gave a low growl into Stiles' mouth. Stiles felt a strained keen make its way out of his own throat in response.

Derek's hands were back on his shoulders then and pushed him back, and down, following himself as he guided Stiles to the floor. _Holy shit_, Stiles thought, heart hammering. _This is it, this is what I want coming to life right now_. The force of Derek's second kiss took him by surprise, and jolted him out of his head rather quickly. He remembered why he'd come, how Derek must be feeling. He was venting. Lonely and hurt and power-struck and venting. Stiles was down with that.

Derek broke the kiss to rake Stiles' shirt up, lowering his mouth to his chest and collar. "Stop me if you don't want it, OK?" he muttered against his skin.

_Not on your life_, Stiles felt like saying, but managed a nod.

He wondered if he could touch too, but Derek seemed happy enough exploring him all over and pinning him down, and Stiles was more than blissed out to let him. When he rubbed their groins together, Stiles could sort of sense that he was holding back from turning. It was terrifying and glorious at the same time. Even when he bore his fangs and snarled as he came.

Derek rolled off him when they were done, lying side by side on their backs. Stiles closed his eyes and listened to his heart.

"You alright?" Derek asked, a little gruffly.

"Sure," he said, and meant it.

"I don't usually..."

"It's OK."

It _was_ OK; Stiles hadn't minded the wolfing out. It was almost a little...no, he'd think about that later. He didn't know the etiquette of this situation - no-one on TV had a relationship like his and Derek's, which was pretty much his only reference point. Could he cuddle? Could they do this again?

"Are you OK?" he ended up blurting out.

"Yeah. Thanks," Derek added, giving his hand a brief, barely-there squeeze. "But you picked a bad night for this."

At least they were on the same page. Stiles liked Derek; even if he was desperately sorry for his behaviour he wasn't going to whore himself to make up for it.

"So, should I come another night?" he said, when he'd settled on that as the safest response.

Derek's eyes were closed, and it made Stiles brave enough to inch closer, resting his head on his arm.

"Yeah. You should."

* * *

If I write more, it'll be a sequel rather than multi-chapter - I like one-shots :) Thanks for reading!


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